My dreams have troubled me a little of late.
Last night, I was imagining myself and Lou were running the forthcoming Mighty Boosh event at a church somewhere in Manchester, and the expected hundreds had not arrived and I was even slightly relieved. However, I woke with something once described (before our shiny Millenium commenced) as millenarian dread, end of the world stuff. The night before was something else bad, I forget exactly what; and the other night I dreamt I was trying to shoot my Mam through some reinforced glass while she was grinning at me.
Two things have not helped. Firstly, the BBC's remake of Nigel Kneale's Survivors (http://www.bbc.co.uk/survivors/), which while not being scary as zombies, not involving being eaten by the re-animated corpse of your girlfriend or local postman or whatever, still sets little shitty slivers in those yielding, reptilian bits in the cortex of the brain. I am not someone who has great confidence in his ability to survive everyday life as it is - cooking for myself without involving food poisoning (probably my main reason for vegetarianism), not dying of heart disease through stress, etc. The idea of being expected to survive a frontline existence of eking and shrieking collies my wobbles and no mistake.
Secondly, the frosty wintry wonderland that is spreading its magic weather mix over our flat Mancopolis instills a toddlery delight in the veins and patterns that appear magically from the atmosphere on dead leaves and car windscreens. It also reminds me of the scene from The Day After Tomorrow when the helicopter sent to rescue the Royal family from Balmoral freezes in mid-air and crashes supernaturally icily into the instantaneously perma-frozen Scotland beneath. http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=iG4mwwzT8T4
I don't know the science of it, but my non-survival instinct, nourished by my cuddly, hairy mammalian glands, paces about in its potential shadow. I don't like it!
I also don't know what I'm going to doing for money from Sunday onwards, so maybe that is also peppering up my innards ever so slightly. I am on the bowl, as I write, and not in the Cypress Hill sense of the phrase that I have just coined. Something more alimentary than that.
Merry Christmas everybody!
Your pal, Coc x
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